


Toxin

by LindseyWells



Category: Football RPF, Men's Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Angst, Bulimia, Childhood Trauma, Dark, Denial, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Eating Disorders, FIFA World Cup 2018, Friendship, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Breakdown, Mood Swings, Not Beta Read, Self-Esteem Issues, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-06-12 12:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15339894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LindseyWells/pseuds/LindseyWells
Summary: After losing the FIFA World Cup Final, Luka seeks help from his secret antidote to avert a mental breakdown. But unlike usual, his long-established approach doesn't go unnoticed this time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a short, unbeta-read dark fic. Please take care of yourself and mind the tags/warnings.  
> Also, I haven't written anything in ages, so don't expect this to be an extraordinary piece of literature ;-) The final simply left me in the mood to create one of those hurt/comfort-fics.

Long familiar with all causes of emotional poisoning, Luka wasn't a bit surprised that today's loss had planted an unbearable noise in his head. In the course of the evening, the pestering noise — _**Your fault! Your fault!**_ — had grown into a gruesome headache — _**You're the worst! The worst!**_ — until finally blossoming into an emaciating insomnia: _**The absolute worst!**_

Now, roughly an hour after he had gone to bed, his pathological self-doubts along with his overeager sense of responsibility had entirely taken over him. Turning once again on the soft yet highly uncomfortable mattress, the captain of the Croatia national football team stared blankly into the ubiquitous darkness incarcerating him. With all artificial and natural lights of the humid night blocked out by the neatly closed curtains, Luka's senses focused involuntarily on the harsh voice of his inner critic, who blamed nobody but him for the match's outcome. Underneath the thin blanket, his restless feet rubbed frantically against each other. On his forehead, beads of sweat multiplied, gluing strands of freshly washed hair to his damp skin. Behind his ribs, his distressed heart whimpered like an injured accident victim trapped in their deformed car. With no help in sight and the pungent smell of leaking gasoline overwhelming the scene, Luka's heart lost all hope.  
There was no way out.  
He knew he was about to have a mental breakdown. And he knew it so damn well because he knew emotional traps, like the one currently imprisoning him, inside out. If he didn't take measures to turn off the maddening noise, he wouldn't be able to calm down — not to mention _sleep_ — any time soon.

Determined, he switched on the tiny lamp standing on the nightstand and blinked repeatedly as he slowly got accustomed to the dim but still hostile light. The spacious hotel complex maintained an indifferent silence; all celebrations were taking place elsewhere. Grieving for the recently deceased chance to win the World Cup, Luka wiped away the few remaining tears disappointment had left him with. God, he felt sick, feverish and incompetent.  
It were the usual symptoms.  
Tonight's defeat had poisoned him. In fact, it had poisoned his self-esteem so severely that crying was just as useless as the _Golden Ball_ award and the wave of comforting words and hugs he had received after the match. When he hit rock bottom like he did now, only one antidote worked for him.

Without wasting any more time, he heaved himself out of bed and walked as quietly as a ghost over the expensive carpet, just to be met by his pale reflection in the bathroom mirror seconds later. To say the events of the day had left him battered would be a massive understatement. In addition to the visible traces of complete physical exertion, he was also ravaged by an uprising panic. The latter never failed to keep a tight grip on him once the jarring chorus of overcritical voices started their cruel singsong in his head.

Taking a deep breath, Luka lifted the toilet seat and closed his eyelids. He didn't even need the assistance of his fingers to activate his gag reflex. Sheer willpower was usually enough. Practice makes perfect after all — and Luka was looking back at a lot of practice. He wasn't doing it daily, though; just when a situation forced him to do it. Over the years, however, many situations had convinced him of being poisoned to such an extent that he could but throw up his feelings along with his food. So despite his lack of appetite after the match, Luka was bent on bringing up what little he had consumed.

He prepared himself by kneeling down and pressing a hand against his stomach. His muscles, long accustomed to the unhealthy procedure, parried immediately. Shaken by contradictions, Luka gagged and bent right over the toilet bowl; the reeking remains of his last meal were greeted by splashes of water. Notwithstanding the fact that the footballer could still feel rests of half-digested food clinging to his stomach's walls, he already started to feel better. Lighter. _Cleaner._ This whole puking thing worked like a housekeeper, but instead of taking care of dirty laundry and dusty furniture, it got Luka's soul shipshape — if only for a while. Sooner or later, the emotional dirt always returned and polluted his mood again, making another cleaning session inevitable.

Most of the time, Luka didn't mind using the services of his secret housekeeper in order to regulate his emotional life. After all, there was absolutely no reason to worry about taking a dose of antidote every now and then. It wasn't like he had an eating disorder. Really. He was nothing like the stick-thin girls on TV or on the internet who endlessly complained about their invisible fat rolls. Never in his entire life had Luka considered himself as too fat. The only weight he was constantly fighting against was that of crushing stress, suffocating anxiety, and nagging worthlessness. These were the harmful toxins pumping up his body, leaving him no choice but to burst or intervene. Throwing up an ordinary meal or a small snack did the trick for him then. Devouring absurd amounts of food — as people suffering from bulimia typically do, according to the media — was usually not how he handled things. Albeit he sometimes overate with the sole aim of throwing everything back up, he wasn't addicted to binging and purging. He wasn't eating disordered in any manner. He was simply stressed and scared and... _haunted_. Yes, on some days, the nasty pictures hanging on his memory's wall — the pictures of terror and acute danger — came alive, threatening to drag him back in time. Puking had proven to be an extremely effective flight reflex, as Luka had discovered during his panic attacks-plagued teenage years. He just didn't want to be afraid anymore. No-one could blame him for that, right? Right.

Nonetheless, he had never dared to open up to somebody. Not his wife, not his best friends, not a doctor, nobody had the slightest clue that Luka was regularly making himself sick. The fear of being misunderstood nourished his secret, for what was he supposed to do if he told someone and this person expected him to stop? The thought alone gave him the creeps and made him vomit till nothing but bitter bile came up. Shivering persistently, Luka wiped his face and his mouth with some toilet paper before flushing the toilet twice. He was cold and tired and his brain had completely shut down — the ideal conditions to fall asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

Zombie-like he rinsed his mouth with some tap water and then dragged himself out of the bathroom, back into the large bed. The covers enveloped him like thick city smog, robbing the oxygen of his lungs and giving sleep the character of unconsciousness. The last thought drifting through Luka's head was that he was going to regret this as soon as—

A piercing cramp drilled through the acidic muscles located in his lower right leg, instantly pulling Luka out of the dreamless blackness that had taken pity on him not too long ago. Crying out, the footballer came to his feet and attempted to get rid of the hellish cramp without losing his balance — which was easier said than done, because dizziness was currently in control of his body. Dizziness and pain, to be precise. Due to the latter, tears conquered Luka's blood-shot eyes and he bit his lip, torn between cursing and pitying himself. If only he hadn't messed up his already irritated electrolyte balance even more by puking.  
If only his self-chosen antidote didn't work against him.

Weeping bitterly — He actually knew better than making himself sick, yet he was at a loss as to how to stop! — Luka could only hope that every treacherous sound he had made tonight had been fully absorbed by the hotel's walls, for the last question he wanted to be asked tomorrow morning was if he had been sick last night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big fat thank you to all of you who've left kudos and/or comments after having read the first chapter! :-) I'm really happy you liked it! And I hope you'll enjoy the second chapter as well. Generally, I suck at writing dialogues/human interaction, that's why I mostly stick to depressing one shots. Yes, this last sentence is a warning: awkward writing ahead! >//<

His cell phone's deafening wake-up call ripped the black sheet of Luka's deep sleep to pieces. Whole body still captured by an immense fatigue, he slowly rolled onto his back and blinked apathetically as he got orientated.  
Russian hotel room.  
World Cup Final.  
Silver medal.  
_Golden Ball_ trophy.  
Dreadful night.  
Blankly puked mind, ready to be redecorated by much more positive feelings than the ones that had struck Luka after the final. Incredibly relieved that his secret antidote once again granted him an emotional start from scratch, he reached for his phone lying on the nightstand, relentlessly filling the room with a melody composed to wake the dead. After he had stopped the alarm with a quick touch to the display, he took a deep breath and carefully sat up in bed. The world around him only slightly spun and a light headache, just like an interference noise on the radio, clouded his senses. Overall, however, he felt just numb. And numb was heaven in comparison to last night.

Functioning entirely on autopilot, he got up, drank some water to get hydrated, paid the bathroom a visit, put on fresh clothes, and packed his suitcase. When he was done, his electronic wristwatch assured him that it was the ideal time to join the rest of the team for breakfast.  
It was the ideal time to plaster his mind's walls with lots and lots of smiles, good vibes, and heartwarming comradeship.

Also, taken the fans' unabated enthusiasm and support during the World Cup into account, a phenomenal welcome home lay ahead of the team, promising the kind of mind-blowing celebration allowing Luka to forget himself for a while. Though far from fulfilling the stereotype of the party-hungry extrovert and equipped with an inconveniently low tolerance for alcohol that had put him in more than one embarrassing situation, the right company combined with the right reason and some boozing always guaranteed that he crossed the border of natural shyness in a trice. And if making football history wasn't an excellent reason to party until you couldn't tell up from down anymore, then what was? Unlike yesterday, Luka was now perfectly able to acknowledge that he had indeed made a considerable contribution to the team's outstanding performance. He had covered an astonishing distance of 72.3 kilometers(1) during the World Cup and winning the _Golden Ball_ award had certainly been no matter of luck. He fucking deserved this trophy! The sudden insight lifted his spirits like a proud parent their beloved child. People would definitely declare Luka mad if they knew that only a few hours ago he had been so devastated he had to puke his guts out, whereas he could now hardly wait to see what the day would bring.

All excited, he put his cell phone and his room card into his back pocket and left his room, heading for the elevator at the end of the floor. In prospect of the sumptuous breakfast buffet, his empty stomach rumbled impatiently. The bitter complaint a direct result of having been robbed of last night's puny meal. Hungry as a hunter, Luka pushed the elevator's button several times in succession and watched the steady transformation of the bright red number on the display installed right above the elevator.

The moment the elevator's metal mouth eventually slid open and Luka was about to step inside, he was held back by a “Hey, Luka! Wait up!”.

Turning his head, he spotted his dear friend Ivan Rakitić shutting the door to his room, which was located right next to Luka's, before bridging the short distance between them with a swift jog. The sight promptly woke Luka's instinct to smile. Blocking the elevator's light barrier with the right half of his body, he lifted his arms in expectation of a short good morning hug but froze as he became aware of the serious look dominating his friend's face. Before Luka got a chance to ask what the matter was, Ivan wrapped his arms around him, pulling him in a gentle embrace lasting significantly longer than the ones they usually shared when meeting first time in the morning. Completely confused, Luka could but absorb the pleasant warmth and well-known scent of Ivan's body for a moment.  
Once his hesitation had died down a bit, his hands found themselves a comfortable place right above Ivan's hip. They were so close Luka fell automatically into the habit of listening to the regular heart beating behind Ivan's ribs. There was just something about the younger man's embraces that always invited Luka to do so.

Interwoven like that, Ivan led them two steps leftwards, into the elevator, his right hand only briefly letting go of Luka for the purpose of pressing the button that ordered the elevator to transport them to the ground floor.

“You okay?” The softly spoken words dripping on Luka's head appeared much louder than the closing doors and reactivated his legitimate fear of being overheard last night. Alarmed, he broke the embrace by leaning back while unconsciously lifting a hand and allowing his restless fingers to fumble with the collar of his shirt.  
“Sure! Why you asking?”

He was such a bad liar — had always been — that it really was no wonder Ivan wasn't buying it but found the short distance ideal to look Luka straight in the eye.  
“You haven't checked your messages last night or this morning, have you?”

“Eh, no,” the smaller midfielder had to admit, now even more disturbed because he had indeed forgotten such an essential part of his morning routine. So his autopilot wasn't as reliable as Luka had thought it to be after all. . .  
While clearing his throat — His voice was a little hoarse from all the shouting and the additional strain of throwing up yesterday — Luka nervously pulled out his phone and almost got swept away by a massive wave of notifications. Friends, relatives, some of his teammates, a few business contacts, and, of course, Vanja, they all had texted him. Even without having read his wife's message, he knew for sure that it was a sweet good morning greeting, written to keep Luka updated about the kids and to cover him with virtual kisses both spouses could hardly wait to turn into real ones. Normally, Vanja's messages had top priority and Luka read them first thing in the morning. In light of the current situation, however, he scrolled through his contact list until Ivan's name appeared. The time the text had been sent didn't augur well, and opening the message only confirmed his worst fear.

**Ivan (01:09):**  
_Everything alright? Sounds like you're being sick_

“So you...did notice...” Shock dismembered Luka's whisper like an unscrupulous murderer his victim. His panic-widened eyes remained fixed on the text and his back was pressed so tightly against the elevator's solid wall that not even a sheet of paper fitted in between. All the while he felt Ivan's worried gaze scanning him from head to toe, noticing that Luka's skin was a little paler than usual, whereas the circles under his eyes had gained dark prominence during the night.

“Yes, it was hard to miss.” Clearly taken aback by he inedible cocktail of bewilderment spilled all over Luka's face, Ivan raised an eyebrow and placed a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. “I was just about to fall asleep when you. . .” _made yourself sick_ , Luka's paranoia spitefully completed the sentence, causing his panic-filled brain to overflow:  
“Sorry for keeping you awake. I didn't mean to! Really! It's-it's not what you're thinking! Sometimes I just have to...to feel better. I -“ **Fuck!** Was he completely out of his mind? The second Luka realized what he had just stuttered he bit his tongue so hard he had to suppress a whimper and swallowed the rest of his subconscious's contraband. It was too late though. He had already dug his own grave. . .

“ _Sometimes you just have to...to feel better?_ ” Ivan echoed irritated. “What's that supposed to mean?”

The question gave Luka an instant allergic reaction: He broke out in a sweat whilst an unbearable itching conquered every inch of his body and his heartbeat accelerated to a painfully fast rate. Shaking his head — There was no way in hell he would answer this question! — he shoved his phone back into his pocket and ran a trembling hand through his still slightly damp hair, before starting to scratch the sensitive skin of his neck. Simultaneously, he could but regard the elevator's display with a wishful look. Just one more floor! Just one more!

“Lukita?“ Ivan's genuine worry, emphasized by a gentle squeeze to Luka's shoulder, was smothering. No, even worse: It was _toxic_ and thus there were no words to describe Luka's relief as the number on the display finally shrank to 0 and the elevator stopped. Intuitively picking a voice strictly reserved for tactless journalists and rude paparazzi, Luka brusquely claimed it was “Nothing”, before freeing himself from Ivan's touch by rolling his shoulder and worming his way through the opening doors. Speedily he passed the hotel reception, turned left and entered the large breakfast room; all the time ignoring the still baffled Ivan close behind him. Treating one of his most trusted friends like this was so very unlike Luka, yet he was much too scared to face his secret in a conversation.

It was hence a blessing in disguise for him to be sucked right into an enthusiastically babbling bubble consisting of Šime Vrsaljko, Dejan Lovren and Domagoj Vida, who were also targeting the buffet. Before Luka even knew what was happening, an arm was slung around his shoulders and Šime informed the whole room of Luka's arrival: “Captain's here, guys!”  
Amicable good morning greetings mixed with raspy cheers and an exuberant kiss was placed on Luka's cheek, drawing the smile back on his dry lips. ~~**_Your fault!_**~~ No-one was blaming him. ~~**_You're the worst!_**~~ No-one was disappointed in him. ~~**_The absolute worst!_**~~ And no-one was avoiding him. Quite the opposite was the case: He was literally wrapped in sincere appreciation and drunken laughter, as Dejan and Domagoj spontaneously hugged him as well. Between two more kisses — Hey, that was the corner of his mouth! — and some hair ruffling, Luka's acute panic was pushed back into the pitch-black corner of his mind where it always hid. The unreserved affection he received did not only make him blush like a coy teenage girl standing in front of her crush, but it was also balm for his troubled soul, easing the itching and soothing his hurting heart. Off the pitch, Luka had never been one for the spotlight. This was especially true for his worries. Somewhere along the road of his war-affected childhood, he had learned that there were more important things in life, things like surviving for example, than burdening his beloved ones with his fears.

“Did you even sleep last night?” he asked upon being released from the group hug, though he already knew the answer.

Eyes glistering mischievously, Šime only grinned from one ear to the other and handed Luka a plate from the pile standing next to the richly filled bread baskets.

Seeking shelter from Ivan by sticking with the trio, Luka instinctively stacked several bread rolls and plenty tiny packets of jam and Nutella on his plate. Somehow he also managed to fetch a large cup of milk coffee and a glass of orange nectar as he accompanied his teammates to an unoccupied table for four. Where Ivan was sitting Luka didn't dare to find out. View glued to his food, he preferred to do as he always did at breakfast: Topping his bread rolls with an unhealthy amount of jam and Nutella. Since all those present were familiar with his extraordinarily sweet tooth in the morning, nobody paid attention to him wolfing down one bread roll after another in no time. All conversations in the room seemed to revolve around the final, and every now and then a phone was shoved under Luka's nose, so he could take a look at a particularly interesting article, tweet or Instagram post. Although it was like standing in a refreshing rain of praise after too many days of intolerable heat, Luka couldn't fully shake off the unnerving feeling of being watched. If only he hadn't been so careless last night! He hadn't even tried to cover up his retching! And to make matters worse, he had also lost his nerve and told his friend face-to-face that he had puked on purpose! Luka still had no explanation for his foolish confession. Lying would have been so much wiser for their friendship, because now Ivan stared at him from somewhere across the room, thinking God knows what. . .

Luka suppressed any dark speculations with a second helping from the buffet. Burying his bitter self-reproaches under multiple layers of sweet spread was easier than overthinking the whole issue, let alone speaking to Ivan. Yet it wasn't until Dejan pointed out Luka's enormous appetite — by then, Luka was about to finish up his fourth helping, which happened to be a giant bowl of honey-coated cereals — that Luka understood he had already decided to puke his breakfast. Well, maybe not all of it, for he didn't want to run on empty. He just needed to clean out his inner unrest. With this end in view, he brushed off Dejan's amused remark with an apparently indifferent shrug and a smile so weak it could barely lift the corners of his mouth.

As soon as he had emptied his bowl and downed his milk coffee, he excused himself with a white lie about his suitcase yearning to be packed. Back in his room — this time he had taken the stairs, constantly praying that a particular person wasn't following him — Luka hurried to the toilet. Given the fact that he was close to bursting and had drunk three cups of milk coffee as well as two tall glasses of orange nectar, the soaked food came up quicker and easier than last night. The more he choked up, the more his panic subsided. Soon he felt less freaked-out.  
Less poisoned.

Gradually regaining the ability to think clearly, Luka eventually stopped, doing nothing except for panting and staring at his vomit. Judging by both his instinct and the sight in front of him, he had puked almost his entire breakfast. Due to all the coffee and Nutella brown was the all-dominating color of the chunky mush. Luka had in fact chewed so poorly that most of the breakfast cereals appeared as if just poured from the box.  
This was sickening. What on earth was wrong with him that he had sacrificed a priceless friendship for _this_?

Deeply ashamed, Luka spat out, flushed the toilet and walked over to the sink. View slightly blurred by tears, he washed his hands and his face, before brushing his teeth and using far too much mouthwash. The bathroom's artificial light behaved like a mean bully, pointing at Luka's cracked lips, sunken cheeks, and waxy complexion. Moreover, the light headache was still by his side and his esophagus burnt from forcing up all the acidic food. The exertion of throwing up on two consecutive days after playing the World Cup was clearly taking its toll on him.

Sighing, Luka turned his back on his reflection, left the bathroom and opened the balcony door to catch some fresh air. He really needed to talk to Ivan, if only to beg him to keep quiet about the issue, so Vanja wouldn't find out. It was all Luka could ask for. He certainly couldn't expect Ivan to stay friends with him, because who in his right mind was interested in being friends with somebody who makes themselves sick? That was truly disgusting! _**You're the worst! The absolute worst!**_ Yes, he was the absolute worst and it was nobody's but his fault that the friendship between Ivan and him had come to such an inglorious end. . .

Shivering equally with sadness and cold, Luka closed the balcony door and helped himself with some mineral water. It was exactly then that he heard a knock. Setting his glass aside, he turned around to face the wooden door. He really didn't need to be a clairvoyant to know who was standing on the other side of this door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **1:** [Fifa says so](https://www.fifa.com/worldcup/players/player/241559/) o.o
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you all for reading! You're welcome to leave your opinion in a comment ^^ I'm terribly hooked on Rakidrić atm, so it had to be Ivan finding out ;> Still, I feel a little bad for throwing Luka in this hell, but I promise there'll be some comfort in the next chapter! The outline for chapter three is already done, but writing in English takes me forever (I'm the kind of insecure writer who constantly rewrites/deletes her sentences ^^").


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, thank you all for your support! ♥ I can't put into words how much your interest and feedback means to me ***thank you!*** I'd also like to thank you for your patience. I didn't mean to keep you waiting for so long, but as I mentioned before: I'm probably the slowest writer in the world  >_<  
> This chapter is actually significantly longer than the previous chapters, so I decided to divide it into two parts. Personally, I don't have problems with long chapters, but past reviews taught me not to drown my readers in endless passages of memories/thoughts/dry narration (nope, my chapters don't turn out long due to dialogues xD). So I hope you don't mind the abrupt cut at this chapter's end.

It took Luka seven large steps to cross the room and three deep breaths to get at least somewhat prepared for what was lying ahead of him. On his way to the door, he had risked a glimpse in the mirror hanging above the dark wooden desk, which was standing opposite the bed. The last hints of the tears evoked by puking had almost entirely vanished into thin air, leaving Luka's red-rimmed eyes emotionally blank, similar to an ocean dead-rinsed by a massive tsunami. But even if there weren't any telltale signs on Luka's face, Ivan surely knew what had just happened. It was very likely that he had made it back to his room in time to catch further acoustic evidence of Luka's vice. Unlike all the years before, Luka hadn't even wasted a single thought on being overheard while throwing up. The cat was already out of the bag, so why take the trouble to keep on hiding his secret from Ivan? Still, Luka felt a stab to the heart as he opened the door a crack and faced no other than the only person who _knew_.

His teammate's light aura of impatience, coupled with the countless questions written all over Ivan's tensed up face, made Luka's insides turn upside down.

“Can I come in?” Ivan tilted his head a little to catch Luka's gaze before discomfort would weigh it down on the ground.

“'Course.” The elder footballer stepped aside, opening the door a bit wider and closing it after his friend had entered the room.

Said friend seemed all churned up inside as he walked over to the balcony door, sighed, whirled around and shot a hurt look at Luka, who froze on the spot, right next to the desk.

“I still can't believe you just told me you make yourself sick and then ran off!” Ivan gestured furiously, struggling hard to maintain his usual quiet manner. “Seriously, Luka, we need to talk about this! Or will you just ignore me for the rest of your life, like you did during breakfast?”

“Of course not! I know this was a terrible way to behave and I'm sorry I did that, but...there's nothing to talk about.” The sweaty fingers of Luka's left hand curled around the desk's edge, while his right hand clenched to a fist, nails digging painfully deep into his skin. Yet, he was completely unaware of the latter. The only thing currently running through his head was that Ivan never flared up like this unless he had a damn good reason.

“Nothing to talk about? Are you shitting me?! You threw up last night and then again today after breakfast!” Ivan was suddenly so loud and so close that Luka intuitively bit his bottom lip and expected the hands grabbing him by the shoulders to shake him until he came to reason. It hence came as a total surprise that Ivan just stared at him for a few seconds, breathing out his anger, before embracing Luka with a sigh so very heartbroken it gave Luka goosebumps.  
“You have to stop doing this to yourself. The sooner, the better.” A long, soft kiss was pressed on Luka's hair, just above his forehead, perforating his fear-shrouded mind and touching him deep in his soul. He had thought his secret too gross to ever be held or hugged or kissed by Ivan again. But here they were, close as ever, Ivan showing not the least sign of disgust.

Swallowing a lump the size of a rock, Luka thankfully closed his eyelids and rested his head on the taller man's chest. The fact that Ivan had no intention whatsoever to break off their friendship was both a blessing and a curse, for as much as Luka appreciated his friend's concern, he was also in two minds about his personal antidote. Despite the negative physical consequences, he neither wanted to nor did he know how to quit his antidote for good. Hence, nothing but a hollow “Right” left his cracked lips, clearly lacking his invincible fighting spirit.

Ivan kept quiet for a moment. Eyebrows furrowed and mouth a thin line, he offered Luka an opportunity to voice his thoughts while stroking his hair. All waiting seemed to be in vain though, causing the younger footballer to be the one eventually breaking the silence.  
“I'll be honest with you, Luka, because that's the language the two of us always speak. I'm no expert when it comes to eating disorders, I'm actually far from being an expert in this field, but even I know that eating disorders can be _extremely_ dangerous.”

“I don't have an eating disorder!” Luka's brown eyes shot open and he jerked backwards, thighs crashing into the desk's hard edge. The space he had occupied in Ivan's arms only seconds ago now empty.

“Yes, you do.” Ivan's utter conviction left no scope for lies or poor excuses. It was as if he had placed Luka's antidote under a microscope and now, after he had closely examined it, he was urging Luka to have a look himself while setting out the facts:  
“Correct me if I'm wrong, but you don't throw up because something doesn't agree with you or because you're suffering from some weird on and off stomach flu. You actually puke on purpose in order to, as you said, _feel better_.” Coming from Ivan, Luka's own words sounded so terribly wrong that Luka felt sick just from listening, and it only got worse when Barcelona's midfielder continued:  
“Also, the amount of food you had for breakfast was _insane_! And when I say insane, I mean insane! I've never witnessed anybody eating like that, but I think that's exactly what some people affected by eating disorders do: They eat like crazy and then make themselves sick, just like you did.”

“I usually don't eat so much food in one go! That only happens occasionally. I rather vomit normal-sized portions and even that doesn't happen too often.” Luka tried to talk the issue down by setting the record straight but was betrayed by his speaking rate, which was a little too fast to hide the dismay triggered by the loss of control he had experienced during breakfast.

“But the crux of the matter is that you're making yourself sick after eating. If that isn't some kind of eating disordered behavior, then what do you think it is?” Slowly but surely, the earnest words tore down the solid defense wall of Luka's stubborn denial, forcing him to face the truth. And the bitter truth was that behind the well-groomed appearance of his personal housekeeper hid nothing else than a devastating disease. The realization hurt Luka in a way nothing had ever hurt him before since it had been him and only him — _**Your fault!**_ — who had renewed the contract time and again, whilst turning a blind eye to the fact that his housekeeper had never lifted a finger for free. For every single puking session his housekeeper had issued an invoice, demanding to be paid with lifetime, headaches, stomach pains, dizziness, acid regurgitation, broken blood vessels in the eyes, a sore throat, an unbearable sense of shame, and the kind of cramps that made Luka cry and wish for another antidote. One that worked properly. One that wasn't... _toxic_.

God, he had been so stupid to nurse an eating disorder in secret without recognizing its existence, let alone its destructive powers! It was like cloning a carnivorous dinosaur, considering it a harmless pet and being genuinely surprised when it devoured you as soon as it saw a chance.

Feeling his heart sink deeper and deeper into desolation, Luka peeked at the bathroom door, the taste of bile overgrowing his tongue. The urge to run straight to the toilet and puke until he had gotten rid of the organ aching oh so terribly behind his sternum almost overwhelmed him. Ivan either sensed it or simply interpreted Luka's short glance correctly. Whatever the case was, he slowly approached Luka, leaned against the desk and put an arm around Luka's lower back, so they ended up standing side by side. Due to the resurrected physical contact, Luka got aware of the trembling currently controlling his body; his nerves were a bundle of obsolete fuses about to blow at any moment. Vomiting breakfast had done a lousy job for his emotional stability. In fact, vomiting had never solved any of his problems. It had only ever suppressed and postponed his unwanted feelings.

“Does Vanja know?” asked Ivan, his presence a physical and mental pillar for Luka, who shook his head and absently lifted his left hand, teeth tips sinking into the second knuckle of his index finger. It was absurd: Purging was essential to survive for him, yet he had never dared to tell Vanja, who he trusted with his life. About the motivation behind his secrecy Luka could only speculate. Naturally, he was too ashamed to confide in his wife, but he had also always told himself that he had no reason to let her into his secret since the problem lay exclusively with him. Neither Vanja nor the kids had ever given him a reason to vomit. But what if Vanja wouldn't understand Luka's reasoning? After all, he had been jeopardizing his health for years on end now by regularly making himself sick. So what if she'd feel betrayed by his secrecy and, even worse, would judge him a bad influence on the children? The mere thought of losing his family made Luka's violated stomach act up. All facial features distorted by pain, he automatically swallowed the gush of gastric acid that had just leaped up his esophagus. On his back, he could feel Ivan's hand drawing slow, warm circles. The comforting touch made the pain at least somewhat tolerable.

“So it's just you and me then? Or does anybody else know?” Luka shook his head once more, his croaky whispered “You don't just tell people this kind of thing.” flew around his maltreated knuckle.

“Well, you told me right out of the blue!” Both Ivan's voice and expression proved that he hadn't quite digested Luka's unexpected confession yet. This disease, this eating disorder, it was like a puzzle piece he still had difficulties fitting to the image he had gained of his friend over the years.

“I didn't mean to tell you, or anybody, _ever_. I guess I just panicked when we were talking earlier...” Even in retrospect Luka still lacked a plausible explanation for his behavior in the elevator, save for his subconscious jumping at the first chance of a helping hand. “As I said, there's nothing to talk about. Or at least not much. _It_ is just something I'm doing. I know it's abhorrent and I'm definitely not proud of doing it, but -” Luka shrugged, too embarrassed to add he was trapped in a vicious circle he couldn't break free from.

“We all do things we're not proud of from time to time.”

“From time to time, yes. But not for years.”

“ **Years?!** ” Ivan gasped in shock. “How long exactly have you been doing it?”

“Since I was 15,” Luka admitted after a moment of hesitation, eyes fixed on a tiny dark stain on the carpet, that deeply disturbed his remarkable sense for cleanness.

“Jesus Christ! That's...that's 17 years! That's more than half of your lifetime!”

Indeed, it was. Luka knew it all too well, just like he knew all too well that vomiting on purpose was far from normal. For the sake of inner peace, however, he had not only legitimized his behavior again and again, but he had also always strictly prohibited himself to count the years and times he had put his antidote to use. Even now he fought tooth and nail against a trip down memory lane, but the flashbacks came anyway. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! As always, feel free to leave your comments down below. I'm curious to read what you're thinking. And don't worry: I don't bite ;3
> 
> In this story, Luka is definitely the kind of person who has blocked out a lot and thus needs some time and support to accept the truth. I might also add that it's not uncommon at all for people affected by eating disorders to suffer for years in silence, before they eventually reach out for help. Or before somebody else realizes what's going on.


	4. Chapter 4

It had all begun with a nightly panic attack so severe that it had made Luka sick to the stomach. For fear of throwing up in bed and waking up the rest of his family, he had quietly hasted into the bathroom, where his nausea had promptly come to a head. The feeling of total emotional shutdown, which had permitted him to fall into a comatose sleep straight afterwards, had stuck with him, beguiling him into making himself sick when the next panic attack had ambushed him. All objections his conscious had made immediately after throwing up had been overruled by his incredibly strong feelings of relief. Thus, self-induced vomiting had turned into a desperate act of self-defense for Luka, who had gradually started to abuse his antidote in order to cushion the force of other emotional deep hits as well. From falsely diagnosed inadequacies — Neither his looks nor his shyness would get him anywhere! — to probing questions concerning his sexuality, he had warded it all off by vomiting. Naturally, the lack of proper problem-solving approaches had to result in him becoming utterly convinced that he would have never made it till today without his antidote.

Against this backdrop, Luka couldn't simply demonize his eating disorder, albeit the shock of its temporal dimension and cumulative destructiveness slowly set in, feeding his trembling and irritating his eyes. 17 years.  
**17 GODDAMN YEARS!**  
How the hell did that happen? The burning of his eyes increased so drastically as if his tear ducts had caught fire. Yet, upon taking a look at Ivan's horrified face, Luka felt much worse for having burdened his friend with the inconvenient truth than he could ever feel for himself.

Pulling himself together — He had no reason to cry. He had made his bed and now he had to lie in it! —, he intended to drop the subject with a “We'd better go downstairs. It's about time.” and turned to move in the direction his suitcase stood but was abruptly brought to a hold by a hand grabbing him by the wrist.  
“There's still plenty of time left.” Ivan, who hadn't missed the heavy breaths his friend had to make use of to push back the tears, gestured vaguely at the clock. “Don't run off again, captain. That's nothing like you.”

“I know! It's just -” Luka shrugged, trying to sort his thoughts out while tucking a strand of unruly hair behind his ear. He knew Ivan was right — yet again. Luka wasn't a coward. He might have lost his nerves during their conversation in the elevator, but normally he didn't fear standing his ground. After all, he was looking back at years jam-packed with people dooming him 'too shy,' 'too weak,' and 'too small' to ever make it to the top of the football world. Yet, he had proven them all wrong. The derogatory remarks only ever fueling the fire of ambition and the flames of anxiety burning in his soul. Whilst the first had come quite handy, the latter had indeed been a problem. For the more anxiety, the more reason to make himself sick. Luka's secret habit hadn't gotten out of hand until he had joined Dinamo Zagreb in 2001, though. With only 16 of age and among so many other highly talented youngsters, he had felt like a tiny fish in a sea full of ravenous sharks. Eat or to be eaten had been the only options and in order to establish himself, he had made every possible effort, including overcoming his reluctance on the pitch and suppressing his anxiety's constant revolts.

It was only from the vantage point of the present that Luka slowly began to comprehend what had actually happened back then: That when he had been living all alone for the first time, sharing his tiny apartment with nobody but his dreams, insecurities, and stubbornness, it had been football training throughout the day and puking practice throughout most evenings. His new living conditions and increased anxiety level just what his eating disorder had been waiting for. It had been exactly then that Luka had, if only subconsciously, experimented with various factors, such as breathing technique, vomiting position, and the ratio of food to liquid, until he had eventually worked out the most efficient method for bringing his stomach contents back up. It had also been then that he had learned his lesson about his body's puking tolerance: For lack of time he had once skipped breakfast after vomiting dinner the night before and he had nearly collapsed during training. He hadn't repeated the mistake ever since, being too painfully aware of the fact that he needed to be in excellent physical shape to achieve his athletic goals.

As time, experience, and profound friendships with his teammates had strengthened Luka's unsoundly self-esteem, the number of evenings he had spent bending over the toilet had automatically diminished. However, he had never outgrown his habit — hadn't even tried to, for a fact. And in times of extreme pressure and exorbitantly high expectations — when having a poor season at Inter Zaprešić, for instance, or when hitting the headlines as Real's worst signing of the year — Luka had never let an opportunity to puke pass.

His extensive binge/purge-sessions were another story entirely. Notwithstanding that he loved his family with all his heart and hence had little trouble avoiding purging when Vanja and the children were around, his eating disorder had trained him to seize every rare opportunity opening up when he was home alone. Luka's standard procedure was to order enough food to feed five or six adults and then pass the waiting time eradicating a relatively save amount of snacks. Save, in this case, translated to 'these foods' disappearance won't raise any suspicion.' As soon as the ordered food was delivered, he would eat as much as he could stomach, throw up, eat the remaining food and throw up again, before spending the rest of the day cleaning the bathroom and the kitchen — He might be an experienced puker, but vomiting big style was still a very dirty business —, and dozing on the sofa.

Now that Luka was reflecting on his behavior, he couldn't believe how naïve he had been and how long he had lied to himself. Neither puking ordinary meals nor licentious binge/purge-sessions had anything to do with him having things under control! The truth was that in a desperate attempt to control his emotions, he had lost control completely. The incident during today's breakfast was just another proof for it.

“At first, making myself sick was rather the exception, you know? I've never done it regularly until I moved out and started playing for Zagreb.” Voice deep with remorse, Luka reluctantly opened the door to his memories for Ivan.  
“That people thought me too small and too skinny and whatnot to become a professional footballer was nothing new to me. I had heard it millions of times before. But at Zagreb, I realized for the first time how fierce the competition actually is and I was still so...so insecure that the comments eventually got to me. I even considered quitting football altogether. But then again, that wasn't what I'd come to Zagreb for. So I just told myself to give my very best every single day and if that still wasn't good enough, then - Well, I-I made myself sick a lot to avoid worrying about that...” Luka swallowed visibly, hanging his head in shame. Unveiling the seamy side of his superb time at Dinamo Zagreb felt terribly wrong. Almost as if he was betraying each and every person he had been in touch with in those days, and even more so the ones he was still interacting with these days.

“And no-one ever noticed?!” Ivan wondered. Shock and disbelieve still had him by the short hairs.

“No,” the older footballer gave a negative shake of the head, shifting uncomfortably. “I only ever did it in my apartment. And after a while, things kind of cooled down: The team dynamic was fantastic, I greatly improved, the critical comments dwindled, and overall, I just felt better. I didn't completely stop throwing up dinner, but I'd only do it four or five times per month. Sometimes more, but usually less. Like once every two or three weeks. And that's still how it is. I also overeat and puke when I'm home alone, but I never considered it much of a problem either. I -” Two bitter tears of regret sprang to Luka's eyes, just to be aggressively blinked away.  
“I always thought I have everything under control, but I'm afraid that's never been the case...” Throat clogged up with humiliation and frustration, Luka sobbed dryly and kicked against the empty garbage can standing next to him with full vigor. The plastic's thundering scream echoed through the room, closely followed by the harsh sounds of Luka's chopped breathing. Despite feeling miserable to the core, he was far too mad at himself to cry. “God, I'm so stupid! **So fucking stupid!** You must think me totally screwed in the head and you've every right to do so! I'm a sick, irresponsible -”

“Okay, that's enough! Just stop it! I don't think any of that nonsense and neither should you!” Right hand still coiled around Luka's wrist, Ivan pulled his friend back into an urgently needed embrace with one swift move. The second their torsos clashed, Luka's sobs intensified, although the few tears falling from his eyes seemed to vaporize the instant they came into contact with his anger-heated cheeks.

The whole situation was embarrassing beyond words for Luka. Not because he was crying, but because the reek of sick still residing in his nose left its sour imprint on his snot and no matter how often he snuffled, his nose just kept on running. If Ivan hadn't noticed the acrid stench yet, he would do so at any moment...  
Corroded by self-contempt and pent-up rage, Luka stuttered an incomprehensible apology and rammed his upper teeth in his lower lip to hinder further sobs from escaping. In his neck, he felt the tender touch of Ivan's left hand, whilst Ivan's right thumb started drawing comforting circles on the inside of Luka's wrist. The affectionate gestures truly surprised Luka, who had expected to be shoved away in disgust but instead found himself in an even firmer growing embrace. Pressing his eyes shut, he lost some more biting tears while slowly calming down. The unconditional consolation exactly what his tormented soul had been starving for.

“Seriously, Luka, you've no reason to beat yourself up like this. It's not getting you anywhere. So please, don't do it again, **ever!** ” Ivan said once his teammate's sobs had died down. “And don't get me wrong here. You're still free to tell me whatever is going on under that mighty hair of yours.” A deft finger curled around a strand of Luka's light hair.

Cracking the tiniest of smiles, Luka had to clear his throat twice before he trusted his voice enough to perform its task at least halfway decently:  
“Not much, too much, it's hard to explain.” He turned his head and lifted his upper arm in order to wipe his wet face with the sleeve of his shirt. “Sometimes vomiting is the only thing that can help me, but it also gives me the worst cramps and headaches and -” He stopped in mid-sentence, keeping the ' _it's come to the point where it's doing me more harm than good, but I can't stop._ ' laying on his tongue to himself. It was probably needless to mention anyway, judging by the sympathetic squeeze to the neck he received.

“I still don't get how making yourself sick is helping you in any manner when it has such a negative impact on your body? You certainly don't need to vomit your food to keep in shape! Trust me on that, you lightweight.”

“I'm not doing it to keep in shape. It has nothing to do with my weight.” To be fair, Luka couldn't rule out the possibility that he had never shredded a pound or two due to puking, but his weight had never been his motivation. He couldn't blame his friend for drawing a connection between weight control and self-induced vomiting, though. Weren't eating disorders normally a result of diets gone wrong? Luka had always assumed so and since his behavior wasn't a failed attempt at weight management, he had thought it impossible to actually suffer from an eating disorder.

However, upon being asked “Then what is it about?”, he dearly wished he had just said that weight was the issue, for now he had to explain what had prompted the chain of his self-destructive behavior in the first place. Inhaling sharply, he nervously scratched his nose and sniffled once more, before running a hand over his mouth and chin. How on earth was he supposed to explain the drastic effects the pictures of omnipresent endangerment hanging at the very end of his memory's somber corridor had on him? Luka felt like a fool for letting something he had experienced so long ago still affect him down to the present day. He and his family were safe now. Consequently, his panic was completely irrational, yet he couldn't help it. Once the memories hit their sanguinary claws into him, all his muscles froze, save for his heart, which _ran, ran, ran_ with insane beats from the frightening noise of exploding mines and the constant fear of losing the rest of his family in a similarly gruesome way as he had lost his grandfather. Luka had become an excellent runner for that matter, especially during the day. Whereas at night, when fatigue narcotized his body, he was rarely able to outrun his panic attacks. The only option he had then was sneaking out of bed and fleeing into the guest bathroom located at the other end of the house, leaving a peacefully sleeping Vanja behind.

The warmth of a gentle squeeze to the hand cut through the thicket of Luka's thoughts, reminding him of his teammate still waiting for an answer to the question, “Then what is it about?”

“Calming down and...forgetting.” Luka's hoarse voice broke under the weight of his words like rotten wood. The terror still racking him jumped from his widely opened eyes and hit Ivan right in the face, causing him to tighten his grip on Luka's hand.

“I see,” said Barcelona's midfielder after a moment of grave silence, understanding marking his face like a black eye. It had probably been quite easy for Ivan to add one and one together, Luka thought to himself. Through the years, the younger man had gotten aware of the fact that Luka circumvented talking about his war-marred past as if it were the iceberg that sank the Titanic.

“We'll find you healthier tactics to deal with your emotions and memories, then.”

In reply to Ivan's carefully chosen words, Luka did nothing but chew his lips and stare at his feet. What healthier tactics had his friend in mind? There were none! Or at least, something deep inside of Luka had told him over and over that searching for another antidote was in vain. Even now the noxious yet very persuasive feeling piped up again, feigning sympathy by assuring Luka that laying off his housekeeper wasn't in his best interest since his life depended on her services. After all, she had always taken good care of him, particularly in times of emotional emergency, and if he was really that concerned about the unwelcome side effects of self-induced vomiting, then he just had to cut down on it a little. It was easy as that, wasn't it?

Luka was dangerously close to falling for the trick his eating disorder was playing on him when Ivan suggested, “How about next time you feel like making yourself sick you give me a call instead? Or message me? Or talk to someone else?” He leaned down a bit to attract Luka's gaze.

The brown eyes almost burst with doubts. Things weren't as simple as Ivan considered them to be. Usually, Luka's unfolding anxiety attracted the panic attacks like carrion the vultures and once the nightmare had begun, it was nearly impossible for him to get distracted. Besides, there were also so many other non-panic-related puking-situations he regularly found himself in because... because... he was addicted. There was no other plausible explanation for him clinging to his eating disorder like a drowning person to a lifebelt, even though he felt it feeding on his body like a parasite. A partial removal of said parasite wouldn't solve the problem. Sooner or later, it would gain the upper hand again for Luka wasn't able to keep it under control. Accordingly, aiming merely at the reduction of his habit was the wrong long-term goal. He needed to fully recover and he would only be able to do so if he was steadfastly determined to overcome his eating disorder for good. It was all or nothing. It was eat or to be eaten all over again. The only difference being that this time he didn't have to make it on his own. He had Ivan on his team, and he had too much to lose not to give it his best shot!

“I guess I could - **I will** try that,” Luka agreed, eyes still locked with his teammate, who smiled in return, equally happy and relieved that Luka had finally plugged up the courage to go on the offensive.

“Promise?”

“Promise!”

“Now you sound again like this really, really good friend of mine who lives by 'The best things never come easy.' I can tell you, he knows what he's talking about. He's been through a lot and nothing ever fell into his lap. But he's so very ambitious; he's excellent at anything he puts his mind to,” Ivan said, more than pleased to see Luka gently shaking his head in mild embarrassment while a modest smile tingled the corners of his mouth.  
“So I'm a hundred percent sure that if he wants to recover, he can do it. It might take him a while — and I'd highly recommend him to talk to his understanding wife, because she'll move heaven and earth to get him the best therapist in the world —, but he'll eventually get there. He isn't one to give up.”

“No, he isn't,” Luka confirmed forthwith. It was true that despite everything he had endured so far, his strength and determination had always kept him going, irrespective of how big his fears had been. So who said he couldn't recover? Who said he couldn't take the disturbing pictures down off his memory's walls? And who said Vanja wouldn't support him? His eating disorder?! The very same illness that had promised him time and again to solve his problems, only to aggravate them? Luka felt his rage rise again.  
“I'm tired of depending on this fucking eating disorder! And I'm tired of these irrational panic attacks.” ~~**_You're the worst!_**~~ “They're the absolute worst! I -”, he straightened his shoulders, memorizing Ivan's advice all too well. “I will speak to Vanja as soon as I get home. I need to go see a therapist.”

“I was hoping you'd decide so.” _Because I can only offer you friendly support, not professional._ Luka clearly got the message, and because words weren't enough to express his gratitude, he stood up on tiptoes, slung his arm around Ivan's shoulders, and buried his face in his neck. He didn't catch as much of Ivan's scent as he would normally do, though, for his nose was still blocked by the sour smell of sick. Damn, he had forgotten about that!  
“Yeah but first of all, I need a shower.” He quickly leaned back, cheeks sweltering in the heat of fresh embarrassment that Ivan instantly decoded.

“Fantastic idea! Add some clean clothes to the plan and I'll happily sit next to you during the bus ride to the airport,” Ivan laughed, playfully punching Luka's arm. “And while you hit the shower, I'll go and check if the hungry pack has left any food on the breakfast buffet. You'd better eat something or you'll be completely sloshed before we've even gotten off the bus! Well, you'll probably be getting drunk as a skunk anyway.”

In reply to Ivan's exploding laughter, Luka shook his head in what appeared to be pure innocence, but the impish grin that had just conquered his lips told another story.

Still enriched by amusement, an “Alright then” fell from Ivan's mouth as he let go of Luka's hand and turned to leave.  


When being held by the wrist had changed into holding hands Luka couldn't reconstruct from his memory. Blushing he gave a confused nod; then the door clicked shut behind Ivan. The warmth of his fingers stayed by Luka's side like a tattoo, reminding him that he – no, **they** could beat his demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, dear readers! :) Once again, I'd like to thank you all for reading the new chapter ♥ and even more so I'd like to say thank you for all the lovely reviews and kudos!
> 
> I haven't decided yet whether I'll do a fifth (and final) chapter or not. The chapter would serve the purpose to track Luka's way of recovery, but I feel like my writing skills are letting me down. You can already tell by the way the fourth chapter is written...  
> Anyway, I hope you still enjoyed the new chapter? Feel free to leave kudos and/or reviews :)
> 
> P.S.: A few weeks ago, I stumbled upon [this article](https://www.worldsoccer.com/features/luka-modric-396393) and decided to use some of the details for Luka's background story in my ff~

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> Feedback is much appreciated, so please leave kudos and/or a review if you enjoyed this story *thank you!*  
> In case you feel like offering your beta reader service, just contact me ([tumblr](http://inwinterdreams.tumblr.com/) is probably the easiest way ;-)


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